VC03 - Mortal Grace (32 page)

“Let me know if there seems to be an intentional pattern of accident. Thanks, Dan.”

As Cardozo swung around in his swivel chair, Ellie came into the cubicle.

“Bob Reach phoned.” Tiny, almost invisible diamonds twinkled in her ears. “Your line was busy. Twelve dried stems were found in a bush forty-three inches from the grave. Assortment of mixed dead blooms fastened with red string.”

“What about the rose?”

“Who says there was a rose?”

“What kind of rose was it?”

“What kind do you want it to be?”

“Don’t do this to me, Ellie.”

“It was an Americana Linda Porter. Are you happy? You don’t look happy. What’s the matter?”

“Meet John Doe from the Seventy-seventh.” Cardozo shoved the file toward her across the desk top. “Identical sibling to Ms. Basket Case, Vegas, and Wills in every respect but one: the killer. Martin Barth was in prison when John Doe was murdered.”

Ellie opened John Doe and flipped through the pages, frowning.

“One further detail. Martin Barth has vanished from the data base. Not a single confession on record.”

The look that she gave him said,
You better stop eating that magic mushroom quiche for lunch.

“Look at the flukes we’re running into and tell me they’re flukes. Four identical cases should have been investigated together. They weren’t. There should have been a panic in the press. There wasn’t.”

“Vince, you’re shouting.”

“When one man confessed to three of the killings, he should have made page one, lead item in the evening news. He didn’t. Any reference to the confessions was buried in three different precincts—”

“I can hear you.” Ellie handed back the folder. “Please stop shouting.”

“And the confessions themselves vanished from the central record. Gone. Wave an electronic wand. Never happened.” Cardozo stacked the files on his desk. “I’d like to see the wand that makes John Doe vanish.”

Ellie sat staring. Something flared up in her eyes. “Vince.”

“What.”

“Move John Doe from the top of the pile. Put it second from the bottom.”

“What? Why?”

Ellie leaned forward and did it herself. Now she sat back in her chair and nodded. “The stain.”

“What stain?”

“It looks like a coffee spill.” The same nod, a little slower. “It runs right down the stack.”

Cardozo rotated the files. He saw what Ellie meant: a dark stain went like a splayed-out plumb line through all four files.

“You’re not paranoid,” she said, “because I see it. And I’m not paranoid, because you see it.”

An energy wave rippled through the cubicle like the snap of a flag in a breeze.

“Those files
were
together,” Ellie said. “And someone spilled coffee on them.”

They sat there not moving, not talking.

It was Ellie who finally broke the silence. “Vince, phone Lou.”

Cardozo lifted the phone and dialed the lab. “Lou, I need you.”

“Hey, if that isn’t ESP. I was just about to call you. What’s happening?”

“I’m going to send you four manila folders. They’re stained. I want to know, is it the same stain on all four? At some point in their history, were they in the same place at the same time?”

“That sounds doable.”

“I also need you to review three homicides for me.” Cardozo read off the case numbers.

“What’s the purpose?”

“Would you note any similarities to Ms. Basket Case. I think it’s one killer.”

“Okay, I’ll get on it.”

Cardozo lifted his coffee cup. “You said you had something for me.”

“Just heard from my handwriting expert. You can rule out Father Montgomery—it’s not his writing on the note. It resembles Ruskay’s.”

The coffee was bitter and Cardozo had no regrets setting it down. “You said it wasn’t a woman’s.”

“That was me—this is my expert. Now, it could be someone imitating the way Ruskay’s handwriting would look if she tried to disguise it. My expert raises an intriguing possibility: it could be Ruskay imitating her own handwriting badly so as not to appear to be the sender.”

“I don’t see it, Lou. That’s awfully sneaky—almost childish.”

“Just passing it along for what it’s worth.”

Ellie’s eyes were waiting when Cardozo hung up.

“Disagreement over Bonnie Ruskay?”

“Who said Bonnie Ruskay?”

“Your face.”

“You’re a great comedian, Ellie, but don’t give up your day job.” Cardozo leaned back in his swivel chair. “Lou’s handwriting analyst thinks Bonnie may have sent the note.”

“And you don’t.”

“Every time I’m with her she defends Father Joe. She’s a tigress on the subject.”

“Maybe she suspects or knows something about him but doesn’t want to say it.”

Cardozo shook his head. “Doesn’t feel right.”

“Maybe she’s trying to incriminate him.”

“And leave a handwritten trail to implicate herself?”

“She could be playing a game we don’t understand yet.”

“She’s not the game-playing type. If she thought Father Joe was guilty, she’d come out and say so.”

“Maybe you’ve figured her wrong. Vince, don’t let her confuse you.”

To Cardozo’s ear, that word
confuse
, coming from Ellie, was like a silk hankie wrapped around a ticking hand grenade. He raised his head slowly to take a long look at her. “Don’t try to control me, Ellie.”

“Who’d want to control you? Who’d even try?” Silence, he discovered, could be hard work. He put on his jacket.

Ellie gave a mischievous little wave. “Say hi to the reverend for me.”

FORTY-TWO

W
HEN BONNIE RUSKAY OPENED
the door, she didn’t seem at all surprised to see Cardozo standing on the sidewalk.

“I happened to be in the neighborhood. Is this a bad time?”

“Not at all. Come on in.”

He followed her indoors. There was a lightness to her movements that gave him the feeling she was pleased to see him.

“I’ve been worrying about you. Have you been bothered by that kid anymore?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

A door flew open and a giggling towheaded child came bounding into the hallway.

“Kyle!” Bonnie’s voice was stern. “I’ve told you never to run through doors—you could hurt yourself or someone else.”

The boy stood hanging his head.

“Come meet Lieutenant Cardozo.”

The boy took two steps forward. His eyes stared down at the carpet.

“Hello, Kyle.” Cardozo held out his hand.

“Kyle, Lieutenant Cardozo said hello and he’s offering his hand. What do you say?”

The boy tipped a glance up. “Hello, sir.” He took the hand. His pale blue eyes had a skittering shyness. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Kyle. A great pleasure.”

“Where’s your sister?” Bonnie said.

“Hiding.”

Bonnie smiled at Cardozo. “Children love the rectory—hiding is the one thing this place is good for.”

“You let children have the run of the place?”

“Why not? I love them. Don’t you?”

“There you are.” A lanky dark-haired man came down the stairway grinning. “One rascal found, one rascal still missing.”

Bonnie turned quickly. “Lieutenant, I’d like you to meet a great friend of mine. Collie, this is Vince.”

They shook hands. Something about the man struck Cardozo as out-of-kilter: the lines in his face said he had to be at least thirty-five years old, yet he was dressed like a college undergrad—clean but torn blue jeans, a Fordham wrestling team maroon cotton T-shirt. The grin stayed on his face, like a word printed on a page, and it seemed to plead,
Please like me
—
I’m a good guy.

“I’ll get these imps out of your hair.” Collie took Kyle by the hand. “Come on, kiddo, let’s go look for Kelly.”

Kyle’s eyes glowed as if Collie was the perfect playmate and a favorite conspirator. “She’s upstairs.”

Cardozo watched them go.

“We’re obviously not going to get much peace around here,” Bonnie said. “It’s a beautiful day for a stroll. How about it?”

They left through the courtyard.

“Father Joe usually does the gardening,” she said. “I’ve been weeding lately, but it’s looking kind of scraggly, isn’t it?”

Cardozo paused beside the rose bush. “This is an unusual-looking plant. What kind of rose is it?”

“That’s Father Joe’s prize. It’s called a Linda Porter—named for Cole Porter’s wife. The Porter estate gave it to Father Joe as a thank-you after he staged
Anything Goes Again
.”

“Is it rare?”

“Not since Father Joe got hold of it. He’s given cuttings to everyone on earth.”

“Like who?”

“Oh…like me.”

“And where did you plant yours?”

“I gave it to my mother for her birthday. She loves roses.”

They walked to the gate. Cardozo’s eye appraised the wrought-iron bars. They were fastened with a padlock. He recognized it as a junk item, made in Taiwan and overpriced for the American market and brand-named Eli to suggest it was a Yale.

“You should have a better lock than this,” he said. “These things aren’t secure.”

He gave the cylinder an upward push against the shackle, then a sharp downward tug. He felt the shackle slip a notch inside the plug. The padlock snapped open.

“I’m embarrassed,” Bonnie said. “You must think I’m an awful fool when it comes to security.”

“No, you’re like the majority of people.” He swung the gate open. “You have a lot of trust. It’s natural in a neighborhood like this.”

They walked along a quiet block of town houses and shade trees and custom cars parked at clean curbs.

“Is Collie self-employed?” Cardozo said.

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s an odd time of day to be free.”

“Collie’s writing two books on the buried elements of Eastern mysticism in Christianity.”

“Does he live from his writing?”

“Barely.” She laughed a good-natured laugh. “No one but Collie could live on the advances religious book publishers pay. Luckily, his needs are modest. He has a very undemanding job on Staten Island with very loose hours.”

“I hope his books are easier to find than yours. I had to look all over town for one of them.”

“I know. You tried at the Fish and the Lamb. You spoke to my brother.”

“That was your brother?”

She nodded. “He told me all about it.”

“How did he know who I was?”

“I tell him pretty much everything that’s going on around here. He figured it out.”

“He’s a salesman?”

“He was pinch-hitting for a sick employee. He’s vice-president of the company.”

“Church suppliers?”

“And religious books. In fact, he’s Collie’s publisher.”

“Interesting line of work.”

“Somebody has to do it.” She smiled. “It’s not as dull as it sounds—especially if you love the church. Ben’s a deacon.”

“That’s like a priest but not quite?”

“It’s a lay position. Sort of a combination priest’s helper and priest substitute. Ben says it’s like having the keys to the bank but not to the vault.”

The light-flecked pavement clicked under their heels. Cardozo felt they were strolling through the past. The violence that had made so much of New York uninhabitable had not reached here. This pretty street had not yet turned mean.

Or had it? he wondered.

His steps slowed. “As a matter of fact, now that I think of it—there is one thing I need to ask you.”

“So this wasn’t a social call.” She turned. “It’s all right. My feelings aren’t hurt. I’ll answer if I can.”

In a pleasant way, she made him feel embarrassed. “Are you positive you’ve never heard the name Tod Lomax before?”

For just an instant, a sort of hesitation flickered in her eyes. “No. I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to remember.”

“Would it help to have another look at his picture?” He handed her the photo of Tod Lomax.

She spent a good ten seconds studying it, and then her eyes came around to his. “I can’t be certain. I may have seen him or someone like him.”

“Where?”

“Around the rectory.” She handed back the photo.

Their fingers brushed and he was struck by the softness of that accidental touch, by what it told him about the softness of her skin.

“When?”

“The first time was over a year ago. The second time was three or four months ago.”

“What was he doing in the rectory?”

“The baseboards and the moldings in the dining room needed work. Father Joe hired a boy.”

“Would he have kept any record of it?”

“We could look in the household accounts ledger.”

They returned to the rectory. Cardozo followed her into the rector’s office.

She opened one of the desk drawers and took out a family-Bible-sized ledger. As she looked through the check stubs her expression became perplexed. “Nothing for house painting in the last four months.”

“What about the first time—you said a year ago?”

“It was around the time the Vanderbilt Garden reopened.” She rippled back through three fat inches of check stubs. “That’s strange. I don’t see anything.”

“May I?” Cardozo lifted the ledger from her hands. He riffled slowly through the stubs for June. There were payments to Con Edison, to the phone company, to a plumber, a glazier, a roof tiler—and a stub for two thousand dollars to the order of
Cash
, in payment of
Miscellaneous.

He made a mental note of the check stub number: 2727. “Could Lomax have been paid off the books?”

Bonnie shook her head not so much in denial as in doubt. “Anything’s possible, but that wasn’t Father Joe’s usual way.”

“Could we see if any work’s been done in the dining room?”

Despite a row of leaded windows looking into the courtyard, the dining room was a long, dark space made even more somber by walls painted moss-green.

“Father Joe wanted the trim brightened. He wanted a kind of oyster shell-gray.”

Cardozo examined the baseboards and moldings. “He got his wish on three walls.”

The trim on the fourth wall was a different color—butterscotch.

“That was the old color,” Bonnie said. “Everyone hated it.”

Cardozo counted the carved chairs placed around the lion-footed mahogany table. Ten. An enormous silver punch bowl sat in the center of the table, reflecting the gloom of the room but adding a fun-house distortion. Two silver candelabra flanked it. The candles had burned down unevenly.